Distance
by jenamy
Summary: [One-shot.] Castiel has, on occasion, entered Dean's dreams. Dean catches him. Genres are not literal, more like a hushed, underlying tone. Rating due to it being m/m and slight paranoia.


**Hi. Just a one-shot that came to mind a while back. I thought I posted it, apparently not.**

* * *

I shouldn't burden you, not like this. Or at least I shouldn't stalk your dreams like I do. Wanting to know everything I couldn't figure out when I put you back together; the subconscious is still a secret—except when you dream.

That laugh, that smile, both so light and carefree, I've never heard either of them outside of your head before. Not out there, not even when it's just you and Sam in the Impala. A long time ago you once told him you wanted it to end; this life of yours was really that horrible?

I remember the night that foul creature distorted your memories. Plied you with a false reality while he drank your blood; I had to watch—helplessly—from heaven. I only know of it because it's the reoccurring dream I constantly stalk. The rare nights you're not plagued with nightmares from the true monsters you hunt—those dark, twisted beings, some of them human.

Except there are two changes, your father's still alive and it's a different brunette you wake up next to each time. It's not the petite female from the false sense of hope. Always the same person now, but not the one supplied to you previously. _You_ placed these two beings in this fantasy realm of yours.

They're curled around you, legs tangled together, but you—the dream you—isn't asleep. You're resting on your elbow, staring down at your bed partner. They're asleep, eyelids fluttering, noting the depth of their slumber, and yet you're simply staring down at them.

The adoration that's on your face, let alone in your eyes as you gently trail a finger down the nose not your own, it makes my grace quiver. There's a gentleness in each brush of your fingertips along the contours of their face, a tenderness you never allow yourself to show in the real world.

I know this part well; you must yearn for this to occur because your subconscious allows for it reoccur a lot. You shift just enough to lean down and press your lips where your fingertips have just touched. This is how you wake your lover in this dream. Each time they open their eyes, or the moment right before, I am always tempted to put myself in their position just to see for one moment, _one small moment_, what it would be like to have you look at _me_ like you do them.

It's rumored I am unfeeling and nothing more than one of heaven's many warriors—only the latter part of that is truth. If we were incapable of feeling how is it that we fought to bring you out of hell? How is it that I continuously answer your calls? I tell you it's because I'm only following orders, to an extent I am, but they pertain to you _and Sam._ What I _feel_ only relates to _you_.

"How long have you been standing there Cas?"

There's pain in your voice; the vulnerability this deep in sleep, you've always hated and cherished it. Your bed partner's gone now. You're sitting up, not looking at me—you either can't or won't.

"I'm sor—"

"Don't tell me you're sorry! How long have you been standing there? Answer the damn question."

Now you look up. I am helpless against the emotions you are feeling. I couldn't form words, I didn't know of any that would or could sooth any or all of how you feel.

"Dammit Cas, I just, do you, do you _know_ what you were seeing? Do you _understand_ what goes on here?"

"Yes."

I drop my gaze from you.

"Yes? Yes, you know? Yes, you understand?"

I nod. I still can't look at you.

"Are you here to tell me to stop?"

My eyes snap to yours.

"I don't think I could, nor would I."

I see slight fear creep into the corners of your eyes.

"If I wake up will you be there?"

"Find out."

I withdraw from your mind. I remove my coat and jacket, and perch myself on the edge of your bed. The slight movement causes your eyes to jerk open; you don't sit up, not right away. Your eyes dart from side to side, taking in the sounds of the room you're in—one of endless hotels you call home.

"Cas?"

It's not more than whisper but I'd have heard it even if I was amongst the hosts of heaven. I place a hand on your ankle; it's the closest body part to me.

"I'm here Dean."


End file.
